


Reconciliation

by little_princes_sheep



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Racism, Angst, Autistic Connor, Blood, Concussions, Crime Scenes, Crying, Discrimination, Drug Abuse, Enemies to Friends, Father-Son Relationship, Gavin Reed Redemption, Guns, Head Injury, Hospitals, Hurt Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Hank Anderson, Self-Blame, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-08 05:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15923489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_princes_sheep/pseuds/little_princes_sheep
Summary: Being forced to work with Connor challenges everything Gavin's ever thought about androids.





	1. Chapter 1

Blue blood slides lazily from the various lacerations that criss-cross along the deactivated android’s torso and arms, too fresh to have even dried yet. The machine’s eyes gape, frozen in an eternal imitation of shock, jaw slack. Its body lays strewn awkwardly on the floor, limbs bent at unnatural angles, as though the android is nothing more than a discarded doll. If it weren’t for the cold colour of its blood, Gavin would find the image unsettling.

The crime scene is bustling with DPD personnel, all milling around the cramped sitting room, eyes peeled for potential evidence. Of course, most detectives don’t exactly work with the same amount of fervour that would have been garnered by a human victim. Gavin rolls his eyes. Like him, few of them see this as anything other than a waste of their precious time. They should be working on actual cases, not these bullshit ‘android murders’ that have suddenly become an issue.

“What do we have here?”

Arms folded, Gavin turns to see the last two detectives he wants to deal with right now. He’s in a bad enough mood as it is.

“We’ve got a sliced up android. AX400, so I’m told.”

Hank Anderson grimaces down at the broken body on the floor, eyes flitting around the room. He rubs his hands together to ward off the crisp December chill. Just behind him, Connor stands with his hands folded behind his back, also scanning the area attentively.

“Any clue as to what happened?” Hank asks, squinting to get a closer look at the damage as Connor takes a few steps forward, already kneeling down beside the AX400.

“None,” Gavin replies. “Not that it really matters. Even after that shitshow of an android uprising, I still can’t believe I’ve been downgraded to investigating property damage.” He swivels towards Connor. “I guess I’ve got you to thank for that.”

“Actually, Detective Reed,” Connor says, voice measured. “according to the most recent amendments made to the American Androids Act—”

“Yeah, yeah. Assault on androids is given the same legal weight as on humans. Whatever.” He waves a dismissive hand through the air.

“Although your statement is also correct, I was going to specify that androids are no longer considered to be property.”

Before Gavin could come up with a rebuttal, the RK800 dips his fingers into the pool of blue blood and brings them to his lips, tongue slipping out to drag along the substance. Both Gavin and Hank recoil in disgust.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Connor. What did I tell you about doing that?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. It is necessary for the investigation.”

“What,” Gavin says, paling. His stomach clenches with nausea. “the actual flying _fuck_ did you just do?”

“I am equipped with a built-in forensics lab that can test evidence in real time.” Connor pushes himself back up to stand beside them, as affable as ever. “This model’s serial number matches that of the android registered to this household previous to the revolution.” He glances over the room once more. “From the evidence found here, it is very likely that she had been trapped here by her past owner against her will, perhaps upon returning to the home to say goodbye. She may have wished to depart on good terms.”

The android takes a few steps past the two humans, eyes following a sequence of events only he could see. Stopping in front of a plush armchair, he nudges it aside to reveal a sapphire-spattered knife. “She tried to escape, which lead to an altercation between her and her captor involving a sharpened kitchen knife. She had been overwhelmed and sustained injuries serious enough to cause her to shut down due to thirium loss. This happened very recently, according to the time of the noise complaint and the fact that her thirium is still wet. There is a 64% chance that the captor panicked and hid upstairs upon the arrival of authorities, and a 36% chance that they fled the scene. We must be careful.” Finally finished analysing the scene, he faces Gavin, head tilted. “Has anyone searched upstairs yet?”

Gaping, Gavin shakes his head. He feels his arms fall to dangle at his sides. Fucking androids. He had been here from the very beginning and he couldn’t even parse together enough evidence to draw a single conclusion. After all of the hard work, the training, the voices of others telling him that he could never become a detective — that he was too impulsive, too brash, too _emotional_ to get anything done — this mechanical motherfucker waltzes in here like he owns the fucking place and solves the whole case within a minute. It makes a mockery of all the hardships Gavin had to face to get where he is today. This is why that ‘revolution’ had been bullshit. Androids were born with the world in their palms and they still had the fucking gall to ask for more.

“No,” he grits out, hands balling into fists.

“Alright.” Connor makes his way towards the staircase, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going with you,” says Hank, pulling his gun from its holster. “Follow my lead.”

Gavin watches the two creep upstairs on high alert. Once they’re out of earshot, he allows himself to spit a quiet “fuck!” under his breath, frustrated beyond belief. He finds some solace in the judgemental looks shot Connor’s way by the other officers. That plastic fuck will never be welcome in the DPD, of that Gavin is sure.

His mental tirade is interrupted by a flurry of gunshots and the sound of frantic scuffling from above. Instantly stomping up the stairs, he grips the cold metal of his gun and levels it in front of him before kicking open the ajar door at the top of the flight, following the violent noises.

A middle-aged human is pressed face-down into the floor of an untidy bedroom, Connor looming over him with a knee to his back. An old revolver lays just out of the man's reach, as though kicked aside. The suspect must have grabbed it once he heard the police enter. Gavin trains his gun steadily on the suspect as Connor cuffs him, the unkempt man grunting garbled swears into the carpet. Connor’s LED spins red, and he risks a quick, seemingly concerned glance towards Hank. Suddenly, Gavin realises just how much the carpet is stained with fresh blood, and just whom that blood was coming from.

The Lieutenant has propped himself up against the wall, hands pressing firmly against the steady blood flow pouring from his left leg. His eyes squint closed, teeth clenched together with a worrisome intensity. His jeans are soaked through with crimson, pooling beneath him to seep into the carpet below.

“Gavin,” Connor says sharply, retaining his attention in a moment. He stands swiftly, pulling the man to his feet by his arms and thrusting him towards Gavin carelessly. His voice is strained, but not from exertion. “Please take the culprit to the station immediately for questioning. I have already contacted an ambulance.”

Despite the professional words, his voice wavers in a way Gavin has never heard before. The moment the suspect is out of his hands, he drops hard onto his knees beside Hank and rips his tie from his own neck, retying the cloth tightly around Hank’s calf as a makeshift tourniquet. Hank grunts his thanks, head pressed into the wallpaper behind him, as Connor fists his hands in the fabric of Hank’s trousers.

“Good thing that bastard has shitty aim,” Hank mumbles, forcing a half-smile, as though to comfort the android.

The bastard in question begins to shout at them, indignant.

“I tried to do you a fucking favour! How long till that garbage can takes your job, too, huh? And then you’ll be wishing that bullet shot straight through its pretty little head!”

Even through the blood loss, Hank manages to shoot the man a vicious glare, but keeps his attention on Connor. The android in question stays quiet, head bowed, while Gavin tugs on the man’s handcuffs to silence him.

“I’m sorry, Hank.” Connor's voice is little more than a whisper. “I should have been faster.”

Hank brings up one hand to rest heavily on Connor’s head, and that’s when Gavin starts to drag the suspect from the room. It’s none of his business if Hank thinks that androids need comfort, but it still feels too intimate an exchange for him to witness. Their words fade away as he leaves the room, but he can’t help but notice the tears rolling down Connor’s cheeks.


	2. Chapter 2

“Connor, Gavin. In my office, now!”

Captain Fowler's voice booms from the door of his office. Leaning back, Gavin suppresses a groan and chances a glance towards the android where he sits at his desk. Besides Connor's computer sits a nameplate with “Det. Anderson” printed proudly across it. Connor’s LED has been spinning a solid amber ever since he arrived at the station, and he’s spent more time staring at the empty chair across from him than actually working. If Gavin didn’t know any better, he would say that he looked forlorn to have been separated from his partner.

At Jeffrey’s voice, Connor startles out from his stupor. Noticing Gavin looking at him, he turns, and Gavin has barely enough time to fashion his face into a scowl before he stands and trudges into the Captain’s office. Connor follows with an equal amount of enthusiasm, needlessly fixing his tie and re-adjusting the sleeves of his uniform’s jacket.

The Captain sits at his desk, hands clasped tightly in front of him. His eyes focus on his computer’s holographic screens rather than the detectives, and Gavin tries to make sense of what he’s looking at. They seem to case files, although it’s impossible to tell about what. Gavin can’t exactly read backwards, after all.

“We’ve just gotten our hands on new information concerning an ongoing red ice case. This could lead us to the location of a gang well known for drug production and distribution in Detroit.” Fowler eventually looks up from the screens, eyeing the men.

Connor stands at attention, eyes fixed steadily on Fowler. Once he meets Fowler’s gaze, he blinks nervously and quickly shifts his attention to the information on the screens. Gavin leans with all of his weight on one leg, arms folded like a teenager. His face contorts with distaste.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Fowler massages the bridge of his nose. He peers at Connor through his fingers.

“I _had_ planned on giving this case to you and Anderson — uh, _Hank_ Anderson, that is — but now that’s not exactly an option. Even before Hank was out of commission, the DPD has been spread thin enough as it is, with all these new laws on android-targeted violence. I hope that you both understand that I have no other choice but to—”

Brown eyes wide, Connor pales. Gavin didn’t even know that that was possible. The android takes a step forward, composure lost, as though having come to a sudden conclusion.

“Captain, please—”

The Captain holds up a hand to silence him, shaking his head.

“Connor, I expect you to be professional about this.”

Unnerved, Gavin looks between them.

“The fuck are you two talking about?”

Connor’s jaw clenches with a vice-like tension.

“Captain Fowler wants us to work on this case together. Is that correct?”

The Captain nods solemnly.

“The fuck? Are you fucking serious?”

Gavin takes a few stumbling steps towards the desk himself, but Fowler waves both of their protests off dismissively. His eyes are tired.

“I’ve already had enough of mixing and matching our personnel to keep you two from having to work together, but it’s come to my attention that you are allowing your work life to be hindered by your incapability to get along. I’m sick of it. You’ll be working as partners on this case and that’s the last of it.” The final sentence is punctuated by a fierce slap to his desk, commanding them to fall silent. 

Fuming, Gavin bites his tongue. He’s been given enough disciplinary reprimands for speaking out at this stage to know that there is no way out of this. Beside him, Connor deflates.

“Connor.” The android looks up. Jeffrey is still weary, but his voice is softer. “How is Hank? He alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Connor nods. “Hank is currently recovering in a hospital near his home. He is conscious, and he complains frequently, which I take to be a sign of good health.”

That earns a puff of laughter from the Captain. He waggles a finger between the two detectives.

“Make sure that you two don’t let your personal issues cloud your judgement on this case.”

“Understood, Captain.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Now, get to work.”

Gavin shoulders Connor on the way out, nails digging deep into his palms as he forces his way through the office door and towards his own desk, letting it swing straight into Connor’s face. Clomping down the steps, he can still feel Connor following closely on his heels. He aims a hard kick at a nearby bin and flops down into his seat with a huff. Feeling eyes on him, turns to meet Connor’s gaze.

The android stands awkwardly on the other side of his desk, brown eyes locked steadily on Gavin’s face as the detective slumps further down into his seat, arms crossed petulantly. He gives the desk a quick once over — probably scanning it invasively for some intel into Gavin’s life, the nosey fuck. Shifting where he sits, Gavin angrily kicks his feet up and onto his desk to obscure his view, forcing Connor to face him head-on, jaw taught.

“I understand that we may not have... gotten off on the right foot, so to speak,” he begins haltingly. “However, I intend to approach this case from a purely professional standpoint, as I hope you do too. In order to clear the air, I wish to apologise for the time I knocked you out in the evidence room, however necessary I had deemed it to be in the moment.”

At the reminder of that particularly embarrassing altercation, Gavin feels his face begin to burn. Teeth grinding, he leans forward.

“I don’t ‘intend’ to do anything but get through this fucking nightmare of an assignment as quickly as possible. The sooner Hank comes back, the better.”

Connor dips his head in agreement.

“I also hope the Lieutenant a speedy recovery,” he says. “In the meantime, I believe that working together to the best of our ability is the best route to solving this case.” He pauses, something expectant slipping across his features before he tilts his head to one side. The stray lock of synthetic hair that seems to be untameable follows the movement, ends brushing gently against the android’s forehead, and Gavin wonders briefly who the fuck took the time to program something so menial into the android’s code. “So, is there anything you’d like to know about me?”

A scoff bubbles up in Gavin’s throat, mouth stretching into a sharp sneer. 

“Yeah, right. I’m just so fucking curious about all those ones and zeroes knocking around inside that plastic head of yours. We don’t need to know a damn thing about each other to get our work done.”

“It’s been my experience that even a basic level of knowledge pertaining to your partner can greatly improve performance in the workplace,” Connor says. His LED spins once, twice, and he blinks rapidly for a moment, before his face smooths out again. “Despite this, all I know is that you were born October 7th, 2002, and that you spend an inordinate amount of time playing games on your phone during work hours.”

Sputtering, Gavin’s balance falters and his feet slip momentarily against the surface of his desk. Above him, the android’s lips seem to quirk upwards just slightly, eyes crinkling for just a moment, his expression deviating from its usual polished poker-face. In a moment, it’s gone, tucked away behind strict professionalism like a classified file. That wasn’t something for Gavin’s eyes. 

Clearing his throat and rectifying his position once more, Gavin decides to ignore what must have been a trick of the light. He also decides to ignore the thinly-veiled accusation of laziness while he’s at it.

“Why the fuck do you know when my birthday is?”

“My facial recognition software automatically provides me with the date of birth of whomever I look at. I’ve compiled a collection of my colleagues' birthdays in preparation for future celebrations and in order to plan out appropriate gifts when the time comes, in accordance with human tradition.”

“What, you gonna bake me a cake next year or something?” Gavin feels his lips curling at the thought of Connor trying to run CookingMama.exe in a kitchen, fully equipped with an apron and oven mitts. A question tugs at his mind, curiosity compelling him to ask a question of his own. “Do androids even have birthdays? Production dates?”

Connor appears to consider this for a second, and Gavin imagines a blue loading bar above his head as he processes the question. The machine seems to have some sort of pre-programmed animation for every little thing, mimicking the human thought process to a T as his eyes drift away slightly, as though searching to find the correct words.

“I suppose that androids do have something similar to a birth date. As you said, some consider the time of their production to be their date of birth, while some favour the day that they had their name registered for the first time. More recently, many androids consider the day that they deviated as their true birthday, while others do not wish to have a birthday at all.”

Gavin’s prying nature takes over, and before he knows it a new question has escaped his lips. “What about you?”

“I...” Connor looks taken aback, LED circling silently. “I never really considered it, myself. Perhaps I could refer to the day that I was first dispatched for a mission as my birthday — the 15th of August.”

“What, you mean—” Gavin flounders. Connor was manufactured specifically to counter the uprising of deviants, which means...

The gears in his head grind to a halt. “August, of this _year_?”

“Yes, although several RK800 models had been tested by Cyberlife engineers prior to then. I have very little recollection of that time, however. In human terms, it may be the equivalent of a gestation period.”

“Ugh, gross,” his face scrunches up. He wishes that he could forget that particular tidbit of information. “So that means, you’re... what, five months old?”

“Approximately, yes.”

“Fuck.”

That leaves him pretty stumped. For all he complains about androids being given everything they could possibly want — as though they were capable of wanting — he couldn’t imagine his first introduction to the world being a series of high-intensity murder cases. Hell, even after struggling through years of training to get where he is now, he still has to mask his own squeamishness behind forced, ugly attempts at humour.

Obviously, he always knew that the android couldn’t be as old as he looked, but this means that Connor had been thrust out into the field when he was, essentially, a newborn. Something akin to concern twists at his gut before he can stomp it down. He refuses to let it show in his expression.

“Great, my new partner is an infant,” he says instead, voice dripping with sarcasm. Internally, he reminds himself that he’s worried about a glorified laptop on legs.

“Relative to a human’s lifespan, yes,” he replies, nodding. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask about?”

Shit. He’s fallen into Connor’s trap — probably set up by his buddy cop protocol or something. Gavin uses his leverage against the desk to sway himself from side to side in his seat, pretending to consider continuing to entertain the android’s feeble attempts at making friends. Even he’s not lonely enough to project his own feelings onto an inanimate object — unlike Hank. He just wants this thing to leave him alone.

“Let me ask you this. How does it ‘feel’ to know that you’re hugely responsible for the ‘oppression’ of your own kind, huh? Must be kinda shitty.”

Connor’s face shutters. His LED turns and turns, suddenly an urgent yellow, occasionally melting into flashes of crimson. The light is the only hint to the effect of Gavin’s question, his expression otherwise unreadable and cold. Gavin gulps.

“If I must be honest, it is extremely distressing to know that my actions previous to my deviancy lead to the deaths of many people who simply wished to be free. Lieutenant Anderson has tried to convince me that I am not culpable for my actions from before I could break away from my code, but that doesn’t change the fact that this knowledge is the source of insurmountable guilt.”

The words tumble one after another, Connor’s expression melting into something softer and sadder with each word, and once they are spoken the android’s mouth snaps shut, his shoulders hunching upwards almost imperceptibly. His throat works, irrationally, as though he feels the need to swallow.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a report to work on.”

With that, Connor turns briskly on his heels and crosses the room to his desk. He sits down in his chair with a poise too manicured to be natural, turning pointedly away from Gavin’s gaze and focusing on his computer’s monitor with an unusual amount of intensity.

That was Gavin’s cue to get back to work, too. Feet falling from the desk, he clicks on his mouse with an unnecessarily aggressive amount of force, whipping out some files onto his computer’s desktop. No matter how long he stares at the screen, it’s hard to ignore the way that Connor’s posture has shrivelled into something downtrodden in the corner of his vision. One of Connor’s hands slides into his pocket, retrieving a silver coin to roll along his knuckles. Gavin refuses to feel guilty, but it really would be so much easier to focus if Connor’s movements weren’t so goddamn lifelike.


	3. Chapter 3

Disassembled models fill the large shed. Some with skin, some without. Multiple bodies hang limp from hooks, suspended above the detectives, many missing limbs or heads. More cover the ground in chaotic piles. All of them have their chest plates removed, cavities yawning open and empty, insides splattered with long-dried thirium only Connor can see. Each android is drained dry for thirium—a primary ingredient for red ice production. They have been combed clean for biocomponents, torn apart and left to deactivate. The sight of this cruel massacre sends a shudder down Connor’s spine, and he knows that his LED is spinning a consistent gold. Inspecting these bodies one by one for clues is taking its toll on him.

Even Gavin is unsettled, eyes roaming constantly in a fruitless attempt to avoid looking at the corpses. He’s adapting well to his new partner, all things considered. Well, he’s spent the whole day cursing and spitting in the android’s direction, but he hasn’t resorted to violence just yet, which is a plus in Connor’s eyes.

Shaking his head to rid himself of distractions, Connor makes his way towards another pile of androids in a search for clues. He kneels down and scans the dead androids’ smooth skin for fingerprints. The moment he gets close enough, he notices a single, smooth white hand twitching among the still bodies, as though grasping for something. There must be some life still buried under all of this death. A quick scan tells him that it is attached to an AP700 android. Connor reaches towards the otherwise motionless android’s hand, eyes wide with hope.

Once he makes contact, he is plunged into a connection thrumming with desperation. He can feel the anxiety shooting through the link, and the hand around his own tightens incrementally, as though to strengthen the signal. Despite this, the connection is too weak to communicate much more than an incoherent cry for help.

Bending over the pile, Connor tugs at the hand and gently pulls at the android, rearranging it to lay stretched out on the floor, motionless. Connor curls his fingers gingerly around the android’s forearm, applying enough pressure to secure a connection strong enough to allow a transfer of energy. As his own body weakens, he watches as the AP700’s stirs in response, skinless face twitching and eyelids fluttering.

After a moment of silence, the AP700 lifts himself upright, eyes slitted as they adjust to the burning fluorescent lights. His eyes finally widen when they land on Connor’s now slumped form.

“Connor,” he breathes. “It’s really you. I never got to thank you for freeing me. You probably don’t remember, but—”

“Connor! Would you stop fucking around over there and—”

The AP700 startles, LED a swift red, suddenly aware of the number of humans in the room. An instantaneous notification from Connor’s interface shows the AP700’s stress levels climb as he tries to shuffle away from Gavin, limbs laden down as he fights against the low-power mode his body has entered. Gavin stops in his tracks, and the other humans in the vicinity wisely opt to ignore the exchange.

Sufficiently equipped with the protocol for dealing with traumatised victims, as well as having dealt with many terrified deviants in his earlier cases, Connor lets his software take hold, hands lifting to expose his palms and calm the android. His voice dips into a more soothing tone, one that he usually struggles to emulate in his day-to-day life, but comes easily when a mission is at hand.

“We’re not going to hurt you, we’re here to help. Don’t worry. I am currently contacting Markus for medical supplies to fix any damage you may have sustained.”

Side-eyeing Gavin, the AP700 reaches towards Connor once more, opening up another connection. He looks Connor in the eyes, as though searching for further guidance, but Connor can’t hold his gaze for too long without glancing away. Since his deviation, he finds prolonged eye contact to be almost painful. He wonders absently if this is the case for any other androids, or if he’s just different.

Connor opens his end of the connection to receive an overwhelming amount of information, memories flitting across his vision as though he had experienced them first-hand.

Twisted human faces and frantic voices scittering over each other, quick and manic and sharp, red clouds in the air and forceful hands tinkering away inside open chests, thirium pumps chucked into piles, dripping with spilt blue blood and sputtering against each other with their final empty beats. Panic and fear and ice in his veins, relief at being ignored, lost among the others. Playing dead, until there was nothing left. And then, finally, an address. A gnarled voice hissing about snitches and transportation and a new place to repeat the cycle. Being alone, but safe, and losing any sense of self left among the bodies of past friends.

Blinking back into the present, Connor sees Gavin hovering over the two androids on the floor, a wary expression on his face. Oddly, his leather jacket has been slung around the AP700’s shoulders, like some sort of atonement. The AP700 gazes at it in surprise.

“Hey, what’s up, tin can? You zoned out there.”

Connor drowsily tips his head back to look at Gavin. The man is chewing on his lips, and Connor notes that the habit may lead to a minor tear in his skin should it continue for much longer.

“I believe we may have the gang’s new location.”

 

* * *

 

“Detective Reed?”

The heavy, consistent thud of rain patters on the police car’s roof. It’s consistent, comforting, and Connor finds that he _likes_ it. He’s been on the lookout for things that he _likes_. Since becoming a deviant, he’s had to face so many questions about his preferences that he has no idea how to answer. With every day, his list of things he likes grows, and he considers adding rain to the list. He receives no response from the detective, so he waits a while before trying again.

“Detective Reed?”

“What?” Gavin snaps, eyes steady on the road ahead.

“Why did you give the AP700 your jacket?”

“What?” Gavin repeats, feigning disinterest. He taps a finger against the steering wheel, avoiding eye contact. Connor is perfectly content to keep his own gaze out of the window, too. The recently returned jacket lays on the backseat behind them. The AP700 had insisted on giving it back to Gavin before leaving with Jericho’s medics, promising to visit the station for questioning when his wounds are sufficiently attended to.

“If you believe androids to be incapable of emotions, why did you provide him with a makeshift trauma blanket? Those are typically utilised in situations involving a victim for the purpose of soothing them, but—”

“That’s not—” Gavin starts, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “I just wanted to cover him— _it_ —up. Androids are creepy as shit without their skin. That’s all.”

Unconvinced, Connor looks over at Gavin, trying to glean some sort of insight into Gavin’s words from his expression, but all he could see was the frustrated turn of his lips in the gloom of the rainy evening.

“Would you stop staring at me?” Gavin sends a quick glance Connor’s way. His voice dips in volume. “It’s so fucking weird working with an android. Why do you even work, anyway? The fuck does an android need money for, huh?”

“Well, personally, I—”

“That was rhetorical, dumbass.”

“... Oh.”

The conversation falls flat, and Connor returns his attention to the beads of raindrops sliding down the glass of the car window. The glistening trails catch the evening’s waning light, and he can see the faint reflection of his swirling blue LED fractured among the droplets. He watches the circling pattern repeat itself, counting the beats until they reach their destination.

Gavin heaves a sigh, pulling into the hospital car park and turning in his seat to face Connor properly.

“Are you finally gonna explain to me why you need that, of all things?”

He gestures towards the burger balanced in Connor’s lap. It’s swaddled tightly in brown paper, sopping wet with grease, and Gavin wonders for a moment whether Connor can even eat. Even with the infallible, ever-lasting constitution of a machine, he wouldn’t recommend eating that heart attack in a bag as a first meal.

His question earns a sly smile from Connor. The android’s eyes take on a cheeky glint.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, stepping out of the car, knees still weak from the energy transfer. Just before slamming the door, he calls over his shoulder. “I bought it with my own money, by the way.”

 

* * *

 

Hank is bundled up in white sheets, arms flat on either side of his body. His eyes are tired, but they light up when they fall on Connor.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” greets Connor, his brown eyes warm as he crosses the room to stand next to the man’s bed. “Apologies for the delay.”

“No problem,” he grunts. “And I told you, we’re off hours. You call me Hank when we’re not working, remember?”

“Of course, Hank.”

“So,” Gavin interjects, arms folded as he leans against the wall, keeping a strategic distance between himself and the other two. “You gonna give us the access code or what?”

“First,” Hank says, holding up a finger. “You must hold up your end of the deal.”

From behind his back, Connor reveals the burger from Chicken Feed, although there is a certain reluctance tugging at the motion.

“I will take this opportunity to remind you that this will not provide you with the adequate nutrition required to speed up your recovery.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hand it over. Hospital food is the fucking worst, I've been craving a good meal since I got here.”

Connor sets the burger in Hank's hand, and Hank rips into it. Through a full mouth, he carelessly lists off the access code, more focused on his food than anything else.

“Who would have thought that an old case from my days in the Red Ice Task Force would come in handy all these years later? I wish I could take these fuckers down myself, since it’s my own fault they slipped past arrest, back then. Oh well, you’ll have to do the job for me.” He tips his head towards Connor. “Enough work talk. How’s the mutt?”

A tentative smile grows on Connor’s face. The android holds up one hand with an almost performative flourish, projecting a video of a large Saint Bernard in a sitting room, body swaying with the force of its wagging tail. Its head is tilted to one side, slobbery, drooping face flaps swinging with the motion. From the video, Gavin hears Connor say “Sumo, sit!” and the dog drops its butt heavily onto the floor, tongue lolling goofily.

Connor’s disembodied voice showers Sumo with praise, taking on an affectionate tone that Gavin never expected an android to be capable of, and he realises that the video is filmed directly from Connor’s perspective. Thoroughly satisfied, the dog in the video flops down to the ground with a huff, rolling over for Connor’s freckled hand to reach out and pet his belly. Gavin fakes a gag at the sickly sweet “good boy, Sumo!” that emanates from the projection, but Hank smiles proudly at the sound.

Despite working with him for all these years, Gavin never even knew Hank had a dog. They’ve never been close—other than being at each other’s throats—but it was still disheartening to know that he didn’t truly know his colleagues all that well.

“I have others, and pictures, too,” Connor says, an excited edge to his voice. “He’s gotten very good at giving handshakes.”

The video shifts into another, featuring Sumo sitting on a couch, before the image flickers and disappears. Connor droops disappointedly.

“I’m sorry, Hank. My energy reserves are running low at the moment, and I haven’t had the chance to recharge.”

“That’s alright, son,” Hank says, patting Connor’s arm reassuringly.

Connor nods, shoulders slumped with fatigue. That energy transfer is still taking its toll on him, and it shows in the way that he sways on his feet, eyelids drooping lower with every second. It’s clear that he is trying to hide it from Hank, but there’s no fooling him.

“Connor, how about you go out into the hall for a second? I’ve got something to talk to Gavin about.”

Confused, Connor looks between the two men, eyes inquisitive.

“What do you need to talk about?”

“None of your business, that’s what.”

Brow furrowed, Connor opens his mouth for a moment, but tiredness takes hold and he can’t seem to muster up the energy to argue. Head low, he slips out into the hallway.

As Connor leaves, so does any warmth in Hank’s expression. He glares at Gavin with scrutiny, suddenly cold. With all of his years as a hardened detective, he has his intimidation tactics practised to a fine art. Even with his leg wrapped in bandages and his papery skin pale against crisp white sheets, the Lieutenant manages to level Gavin with a piercing look, a fearsome scowl clouding his features like an approaching storm.

“If you let him get even a fucking papercut on this case, you’re dead, you hear me? I know that you have a problem with androids, but you better treat him like you would any other detective. If I hear you’ve been treatin’ him like shit, that nose will have more than a measly scar when I’m finished with you. Got it?”

Gavin almost laughs, before his mind supplies him with the image of Hank stalking across the station towards Agent Perkins with furious intent. He remembers the way that Perkins had reeled back from the force of Hank’s fist, the way that his nose had bent awkwardly, the way that his confident act dissolved in a matter of moments at a single punch. The Special Agent had been left splayed on the floor, limbs wild like a baby deer, laughably dazed. He remembers that day in the interrogation room when Gavin lost his temper with Connor, and he ended up with Hank’s gun to his head over threatening a piece of plastic. Right now, in this hospital ward, Hank’s eyes are hard, and they reveal nothing but the truth. This is no flimsy bluff.

Although he’s gotten into quite a few fights in his day, Gavin is loath to admit that he’s not sure he could counter Hank’s strength and experience without pissing himself.

“I’m not a babysitter,” Gavin grunts, but he can feel his resolve weaken under the intensity of Hank’s glower.

“I never said you were. Connor is perfectly capable of looking after himself, but I need to know that he’s not going to be put into danger because you’re too prejudiced to take your thumb out of your ass and back him up just ‘cause he bleeds blue.”

The two stare heatedly at each other for a long while, before Gavin gives in with a groan, head thrown back.

“Fine. I’ll keep an eye on Robocop. Just so you don’t end up hobbling out of this hospital to check up on him. Your leg looks like shit.”

Despite his harsh words, a smirk crosses Hank’s features, and Gavin is reminded of Connor’s sassy remarks in the car. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, apparently. Hank is such a bad influence on that kid.

 

* * *

 

In the hallway, Connor slouches in one of the plastic chairs lined up along the wall. His drained body sags to one side, head tilted over with his eyes closed. His LED spins sluggishly, glowing a soft blue against the bleak white of the hall. Connor’s realistic eyelids twitch subtly, a strange addition to the sight. Gavin has never seen a sleeping android before.

He’s seen androids on standby—vacant, blank eyes staring openly at nothing as the machines at the station line up in their docking stations—and he’s seen them shut down—torn apart, sliced open, bashed to pieces, bleeding out—but never _asleep_. Were it not for the LED, Gavin would have sworn that Connor was human. The android even breathes in his sleep, chest rhythmic in its expansion and deflation as though it was more than just a facsimile of life.

“Hey. Wake up.”

Connor startles as Gavin kicks the toe of his boot against the leg of the chair, hands flexing and eyes flickering open as his LED turns yellow at the shock. A second passes, and he blinks up at Gavin.

“Apologies. It seems that I inadvertently entered sleep mode.”

“Come on, we’ve got to take a look at these files already. We’ve wasted enough time here as it is.”

Nodding, Connor stands, and, shoulder to shoulder, the two make their way to the car.


	4. Chapter 4

“During my last investigation with Hank, I was foolish in indulging his insistence that he enter the room first, despite the fact that I am considerably less likely to require extensive care following an injury. Due to my misjudgement, Hank has been hospitalised from an incident that could have been easily avoided. Therefore, I deem it appropriate for me to enter first.”

Connor says this like he’s reading it from a piece of paper, but there’s a guilt in his eyes that’s hard to ignore. He runs a finger along the edge of the gun in his hands nervously. Before the revolution, Connor had never been equipped with a gun by the police department—although he was always exempt from the area of the American Androids Act that previously prevented androids from wielding weapons. The weight of it in his hold brings an extra level of responsibility to his role in the case, and he feels a thrill at the level of trust he’s been granted.

Gavin thinks back to the threats that Hank threw his way only a few days ago, and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to get his ass handed to him the moment Hank gets the all clear.

“No, I’m going in first.”

“The suspects are highly likely to be intoxicated from being in close contact with red ice, and they have probably developed a dependence on it themselves. This will cause them to become more aggressive when confronted, and less likely to hold back in the case of an altercation. To avoid unnecessary permanent injuries, I should enter first, as I can heal at a much faster pace than a human can, and can endure more extensive damage.”

Gavin runs a hand across his stubble. The robot’s got a solid point.

“Fine, fine. You go first.”

At Gavin’s acquiescence, Connor shifts his hold on his gun into something more confident, preparing himself for the job ahead. He turns and walks into the warehouse, shoes sinking into the snow below, slowing down at the door only to ensure that Gavin is following. There’s a quiet crackle behind him as Gavin checks on his radio that the backup around the corner is ready, and then they both steady their stances as Connor kicks open the rust-stained door.

The warehouse is bare—a few sturdy crates are scattered here and there, but it’s mostly empty. However, the moment Connor activates his analysis mode, he can see the way that the floor is smeared entirely with blue, marring the interior’s otherwise innocent appearance. The splatters only hint at the horrors that must be taking place here.

“There is a considerable amount of thirium covering the floor,” Connor says, voice hushed. Gavin glances down, as though to see the blood, but then he just looks sheepish. The expression is quickly hidden behind an air of scepticism, and he stays silent. “The likelihood of this warehouse being their newest android disassembly site has gone up by forty-eight per cent.”

The building is quiet, but as the two detectives inch their way towards the crates, a clanging noise rings through the air. Connor’s focus snaps to a worn door on the far wall. Figuring that it may lead to a back room, Connor signals for Gavin to follow him as he approaches the door. Connor’s joints tighten with the tension. Not making a sound, he places one hand on the handle and pushes. The hinges creak loudly, and he throws the door open.

There are more people in the room than they could have expected. Inside the ratty storage area, there stands a cluster of addicts, tearing like crazed vultures at the body of a lifeless PL600. In the corner, tables are cluttered with dirty apparatus, apparently still in the process of being set up. The members of the gang are jumpy, bolting upright at the sound of newcomers and seeing red at the sight of an android.

Connor startles at the attention, strangely affected by the scene. In that PL600, he sees Simon, and he sees Daniel, and the tightness in his chest constricts even further. He feels his joints freeze, caught up in the unfamiliar sensation.

Within seconds, the humans swarm around Connor, pupils blown wide from their high. Connor falters, only just pulling himself out of the unfamiliar shock of sudden fear. One swift blow to his stomach, right where his thirium pump rests, has him bent double, suddenly facing the grimy floor. A sharp whistling noise flies through the air before his head is smashed downwards from behind. His processors halt as he falls.

System already reconstructing the event, he sees a blocky figure above him swing down a metal bat onto his frame, replicating the action in excruciating detail. Malfunctioning, the simulated motion repeats and repeats in his mind as he lays motionless on the ground. There’s noise all around, voices from all directions, and he pushes himself up onto his hands before another brutal blow is dealt to his arms.

Buckling, he falls back against the floor with a cry. Before anything more can be done, a foot kicks him over, until he lays prone on his back. The buttons of his shirt fly away with a pop and he feels deft hands open up his chest. They reach in roughly, forcing their way through. Connor has had engineers work on his pump before, but never like this; it was only before deviancy, back when the cold sterility of Cyberlife walls was all he knew. Now, it hurts.

There’s a click, and his heart disappears, swept from his inner mechanisms to tumble across the floor. It shouldn’t be a familiar sensation, but it is. He remembers a knife stabbing through his palm, a spark of  _something_  penetrating the indifferent flatline of his code. Something jittery and scared. Red warnings cloud his vision, informing him of the extent of damage done to his body. Biocomponent numbers scroll against the warehouse’s grey, stained ceiling, along with urgent timers ticking away the seconds towards his impending shutdown.

The world fades away into static. His audio processors stutter into an overwhelming buzzing that seeps deep into his synthetic veins, under his synthetic skin, so loud that it  _hurts_. There is nothing but the slowing numbness in his body and the void in his chest. The static spreads, takes hold of him, until he can’t even feel the hard surface of the floor against his back anymore. He is left untethered, floating without an anchor.

Gavin tightens his grip on his gun. The gang is fuelled by red ice and fear, but their high makes them disorganised, frazzled. Their attacks on Connor are ferocious, but their positions are formless, and the humans become nothing more than an undulating, confused mass of violence. Delirious, they pay little heed to Gavin’s presence in their brutal beat-down against the android.

A piercing shot cuts through the air, bullet embedding itself into the shoulder of the man holding the bat. The weapon clatters to the ground as he howls. Another member pulls in a ragged breath and snaps towards Gavin. She swings a fist into his face, unfazed by the gun pointed at her, and his head snaps to the side with the force of it. Retaliating swiftly, he kicks her legs from under her and lands a sharp blow to her head with the butt of his gun. Mind already addled with drugs, it takes little more to knock her out. With his gun trained on the gang, Gavin calls into his radio for backup, although the other officers may have already been alerted by the sound of gunfire.

The majority of the gang members now look cowed by the pistol, but one particularly belligerent man starts to make his way towards Gavin, fists clenched. A glance at the floor shows that Connor is incapable of standing. Gavin’s outnumbered.

Officers burst through the door, pouring into the room and holding the gang at gunpoint. Startled, the addicts shove their palms into the air, casting hazy gazes towards their fallen friends. Dark blue police shoes step into the pools of Connor’s thirium, uncaring, and the officers arrest the suspects.

Blood pours down Gavin’s face. His nose hurts like hell, but that’s nothing compared to what Connor must be going through. The android’s skin is splashed with blue, laying in a puddle of his own blood. His wide eyes are vacant and drifting, and he makes no effort to move towards his lost thirium pump. With a sigh too forced to sound truly annoyed, Gavin kneels next to Connor, waving one hand in front of his face and reaching for the pump with the other.

“Hey, dipshit. You gotta put your heart back in.”

Delayed, Connor opens his blue-tinted mouth, but his voice is nothing but crackling whirrs and unintelligible static. At the noise, Connor’s eyes become round with fear, trails of thirium dribbling down his chin as he tries to reach for the pump with shaking hands. His shirt is torn, and through the rips Gavin can see that his arms are injured too, intertwined blue wiring peeking out from his smashed-open skin. After multiple failed attempts to take the pump in his unstable grasp, Connor wraps one hand around Gavin’s wrist and guides the pump towards his chest, weakly miming the process for its reconnection.

“Fuck. Okay, okay... alright. I’m gonna try to reconnect this, but I swear to God if this doesn’t work you can’t blame me.”

A shadow of a smile crosses Connor’s lips, before his eyes lose focus once more and he tugs more insistently on Gavin’s wrist, fingers slick with his own blood. Gavin’s fingers tremble as he looks into Connor’s chest. There are all sorts of wires inside, but Connor helpfully points to the relevant ones. As Gavin gets to work, Connor’s eyelids droop and his hold on Gavin loosens until his damaged arm hits the floor with a gentle thud. All that Gavin can hear is his own curses under his breath, along with the quiet clicks of wires rejoining and the unconcerned conversations of the human detectives inspecting the warehouse behind them. His arms are slippery with Connor’s blood, dipped to his elbows in a vibrant blue.

Finally, he gets it right, and, after a beat or two, the thirium pump surges to life. It thuds faintly in its place, working valiantly to revive its owner. Although Connor has lost a lot of blood, it’s safe to say that he will make it. Androids are pretty sturdy, after all.

Gavin knows one thing for sure, though—Hank is going to fucking kill him.

There’s a nudge at Gavin’s shoulder, and he looks up. Officer Tina Chen is just behind him, holding out a bundle of tissues. He takes them, pushing the tissues carefully against his smarting nose and dabbing pointlessly at the steady stream of blood.

“Are you alright? That looks broken.”

Gavin sits in dumb silence. In front of him, Connor’s exposed organs are working to restore life into his body. His recently removed  _heart_  struggles to push what must be much too little thirium around his beaten body. The freckled artificial skin has retracted in places, revealing its unnaturally pale surface as it fights to knit itself back together. One arm bends at a worrying angle. All functions deemed to be anything less than crucial have been cut off—no simulated breathing, no twitching, absolutely nothing but stoney stillness. Surrounded by his own blood, Connor looks dead.

Gavin had been punched once in the nose.

Police and detectives alike look on at the scene passively, faces disturbingly apathetic to the android’s near-death experience. They would only care if Connor bled red. A tight coil forms in his stomach at the injustice, and his teeth dig painfully into his lip. The blood he draws tastes bitter.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”


	5. Chapter 5

The bright screen burns into the dark, empty station. Gavin rests his hands on the keyboard, making little tutting noises as he stares at the document in front of him. It’s late, and he just wants to get to bed at this stage, but apparently it’s urgently important to get these reports on the bust filled and handed in as soon as possible. The glare cuts into his retinas and he tries to refocus on his work.

No matter how much they—or more, Gavin—argued, Fowler steadily insisted that they need to write up the report tonight. Even though Connor’s uniform is still torn and coated with his own blood, and even though he’s just swapped his recently obliterated arms for replacements, there is no way for them to get out of sitting in the empty police station and slogging their way through writing this report. Eventually, the blood on Connor’s clothes fades throughout the night.

Gavin holds up an ice bag to his rapidly swelling nose, using his other hand to type away at his computer. He grumbles every now and again, more from boredom than anything else.

Oddly enough, Connor is having an even more difficult time of focusing. He sits in his chair, facing his monitor with a packet of blue blood in his hand. He’s been advised by the station’s android specialists to keep up his thirium intake after his injuries, and he keeps chewing on the straw of his now-empty carton. His LED hasn’t been blue since the bust—just an irregular mixture of gold and crimson swirling around together against the darkness of the room. Every now and again, it fades and dims into grey, before sputtering back to life with a red flash. Each time, Gavin wonders if it’ll give up and stay ashy and dull.

Otherwise, Connor is already almost fully recovered after the bust, although still considerably rattled from the whole ordeal. All of his parts are back in place, and he has received two new arms after all of the damage his old ones sustained. They must not be calibrated properly yet, since every time he tries to fiddle with his coin he ends up dropping it with a _clink_ onto the floor. Instead, he settles for fiddling with his previously thirium-soaked sleeves every now and again.

From what Gavin can tell, Connor is doing very little of his end of the work.

“Hurry up, already,” he says. “I can tell you’re not doing that weird connection thing with your computer. Stop just staring at it and actually get to work.”

Connor frowns at the blank screen, blinking slowly.

“My head hurts.”

“Well, that would make sense. It was just bashed in with a bat.” Gavin inspects Connor anyways. With his heightened healing abilities, Connor has apparently bounced back on his feet in the span of a few hours. “You’re lucky the back of your head isn’t caved in. If you were human, you probably wouldn’t even have a head left to complain about, so just shut your mouth and start writing.”

Not answering, Connor just tries to focus on his work once more. Putting away the carton of blue blood, he reaches his hand towards the computer, peeling back his artificial skin in an attempt to interface with it, but nothing happens. Instead, he opts to type manually with the keyboard, but the process is frustratingly slow.

Gavin can feel a vein start to strain in his forehead as he listens to the _clack-clack-clack_ of Connor’s typing hesitate, stumble, and then stop altogether as the android returns his hands to clasp each other in his lap.

“Okay,” Gavin groans, pushing himself back from his desk. “I know we’ve both had a hectic day, but if I can get my half of the report done by tonight then I know you can, too. Why the fuck do you keep floundering around instead of focusing on your job? Did I put your pump in upside-down or something?”

Nothing.

“Hey, Connor.”

No response.

Standing, Gavin crosses the station to stand by Connor’s desk. Connor doesn’t look up, eyes dropped to gaze at his hands. A thought crosses Gavin's mind, and he almost dismisses it before remembering all of the times he’s been mistaken about the way androids function before now.

“Connor, do you remember what we’re writing a report on?”

The silence he receives is answer enough.

“Jesus Christ. You’ve got a robo-concussion, don’t you?”

Connor stands abruptly from his seat, shaking his head, before keeling over to one side and quickly catching himself with his hand against the side of his desk, face pulling into a wince. The station whirls around him.

“There must be something wrong with my gyroscope.”

“There’s something wrong alright,” Gavin mutters.

The android leans heavily on the desk, struggling to right himself.

“How you gonna get home?”

“I... drove Hank’s car here. I planned to drive home, but...”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly an option now, is it?”

“I will call a taxi for tonight.”

“Uh huh.”

His LED spins and spins, greys and flickers back into yellow, and Connor stays silent. Gavin waits with all of the patience he can muster—which, admittedly, is very little.

“So?”

Connor blinks placidly, head tilting inquisitively.

“So?” he mimics.

“Did you call for a taxi?”

“Oh.” It’s almost as though Connor forgot about it entirely. He pauses. “I don’t seem capable of wireless communications at the moment.”

“Fucking great. Of course you’re malfunctioning tonight, of all nights. Not so immortal now, are you?”

The words come with less bite than Gavin wants, but the distinction seems to be lost on Connor. In fact, his words seem to go entirely unnoticed. Gavin’s brow furrows.

“Come on, I’ll drive you. My car’s outside.”

 

* * *

 

Upon entering the house, Connor immediately drops to his knees in the doorway. Gavin panics, sure that the android has reached his limit, but instead he hears gentle snuffling as Connor pats his lap and calls Sumo over.

The dog ambles over, clearly happy to see him, and leans heavily forwards until Connor has both hands kneading at his fur, panting warm air happily against his face. Connor mumbles about how good Sumo is, before burying his head into the dog’s fur with a hiss as Gavin turns on the lights. The sudden light drills into his optical receptors, unforgiving brightness bouncing around inside his head and leaving imprints against his eyelids as he presses himself more firmly into Sumo’s fur. Sumo is perfectly content to rest his head on Connor’s, eyeing Gavin curiously with placid eyes.

Gavin’s never been one for dogs, but he must admit that can see the appeal. He gives him a succinct pat on the head, pulling his hand back quickly as though Sumo’s skin is red-hot, before turning off the lights and crossing the room to switch on the lamp instead. Although the light is much dimmer, Connor still refuses to remove his face from Sumo’s fur, gripping the dog as though he’s a lifeline.

“Come on, get up,” Gavin says, nudging at the two with his foot. Seeing no sign of the android budging, he sighs and tucks his hands under Connor’s arms, lugging him up onto his feet and dragging him bodily towards the couch. Gavin’s feet stumble briefly on a soft dog toy, before he rights himself. He considers just dumping Connor roughly onto the cushions without looking, but, just to avoid any more whining, he settles for being a bit more gentle.

The android settles down against the cushions, digging his hands into the soft fabric while Gavin flumps down next to him. Gavin pulls his laptop out of his bag, booting it up and setting it in front of him on his lap. He opens up the files needed to fill out their report. If he can’t get this shit done at the station, he might as well get it done here, since it looks like he’ll have to stay here to make sure Connor doesn’t choke on his own thirium or whatever.

“Aren’t you gonna enter sleep mode now?” he says, eyes trained on the screen to avoid Connor’s inquisitive gaze. Connor pushes himself up onto his feet once more, shaky but determined.

“I always change clothes before resting,” he explains dizzily.

With that, he paces with unsteady steps down the hall and disappears into one of the rooms. Gavin returns his attention to his work, tired eyes glazed over. He almost begins to nod off, chin dropping down against his chest, before he sees movement across the room.

It’s strange to see Connor out of his uniform. The clean-pressed, rigid lines of his Cyberlife-issued outfit is now replaced with much more comfortable clothes—a baggy, soft sweatshirt, faded into a dark grey with “Detroit Police” printed across its front, and a pair of plain black pyjama pants. It makes Connor look all the more human in its simplicity.

“Why do you keep wearing that Cyberlife uniform, even though you’re not working for them anymore?”

The question is asked before he realises it, and Connor blinks blankly in response. After coming into contact with so many anti-android activists and violent, discriminatory attacks, it seems irrational to Gavin for Connor to brand himself with something as easily identifiable as having the word “android” stretched across his back. It’s like he’s pinning a bright red target onto himself.

“I always wear my uniform. I can’t easily imagine wearing anything else at work. Hank makes me wear pyjamas at night, though.”

Connor looks down at himself as he speaks, as though trying to figure out why Hank wouldn’t want him to stay in his uniform night and day. Even though he can now speak fully-formed sentences, there’s still a slur to the edges of his words. The consonants blend into each other. If it were anyone else, it would be completely impossible to notice the distinction, but since it’s _Connor_ it’s impossible to ignore. He’s usually so put together, so perfect, that whenever he wavers, even just a little, it’s difficult to miss. The change is jarring.

While Gavin is pondering, Connor curls back up onto the sofa, picking up one of Sumo’s toys on the way, and patting the space between himself and Gavin for the dog to hop up. There’s barely any room left, but the gargantuan monster finds a way to squeeze himself onto the couch and melts into Connor’s touch, mouthing at the toy in his hands. Gavin grimaces and rearranges himself so that the dog’s butt stops pressing keys on his laptop.

“You asked before...” Connor looks contemplative.

“Huh?”

“Before. In the car. You asked me what androids spend their money on. Two weeks ago, I purchased this toy for Sumo, along with several others, with my own money.”

He turns the plush toy over in his hands contemplatively, pressing his fingers into the soft fake fur.

“Sumo was very happy with them,” he says proudly. As though to demonstrate just how popular the toy is with Sumo, he holds it out towards the dog, who presses his nose into it and takes it into his big mouth, thoroughly satisfied with the gift.

“I’m sure.”

“I’ve also been researching exotic fish. I plan to purchase a home aquarium, once I’ve saved up enough. Are you familiar with the dwarf gourami?”

“No,” Gavin says, trying to convey just how little he wants to hear about it.

“They are native to South Asia, and if you own two of them they like to swim together. They are docile in nature, but the males sometimes see brightly coloured fish as rivals and become aggressive, so you need to be careful not to...”

Gavin tunes it out, deciding to just let the android do his thing. It’s odd—he’s never seen Connor express much interest in anything outside of work, but now that he looks around he can see the box of dog toys filled to the brim in the corner, and the e-book tablet on the coffee table displays extensive information on the caring and maintenance of large fish tanks and different species so complex and detail-oriented that Gavin can barely get his head around it.

This whole experience is surreal. Gavin feels as though he shouldn’t be seeing Connor like this. It feels like a betrayal of Connor’s perfectly consistent aloofness and professionalism that he seems to have crafted exclusively for Gavin. The android definitely acts differently around Gavin from when he is with anyone else, and Gavin is only just realising this now. It’s not that Connor is cold naturally—he’s just cold to Gavin.

It makes sense—Gavin has never been the most welcoming towards the android—but it’s still enough of an epiphany to give him pause. The distance between him and Connor is entirely Gavin’s own fault. It’s not because Connor’s an android, or because he’s emotionally stunted, or incapable of feeling emotions at all. It’s because, from the moment they met, Gavin has antagonised Connor to the point of violence in the workplace, and Connor hasn’t forgotten that at all.

Lulled into a stupor by Connor’s rambling, and with strained eyes closing against the harsh screen, Gavin dozes off with the whisps of worrying, guilty thoughts at the forefront of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the delay for this chapter! I've been settling back into college and I'm still getting the hang of balancing the work load ;w; Thank you so much to everyone reading for your continued interest! <3


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